


Hot And Cold (Yes and Snow)

by perfectlystill



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fireplaces, Hot Chocolate, Snow, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:29:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlystill/pseuds/perfectlystill
Summary: Unzipping his coat and tugging off his gloves, he presses his cold hands to MJ’s flushed cheeks, grinning when she wiggles away. “See? I’m cold.”
Relationships: Michelle Jones/Peter Parker
Comments: 16
Kudos: 121





	Hot And Cold (Yes and Snow)

**Author's Note:**

> For my truncated version of [positivelyglowing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/positivelyglowing/pseuds/positivelyglowing)'s [12 Day of Promptmas](https://spiderman-homecomeme.tumblr.com/post/189131059410/twelve-days-of-promptmas), using concept 10: Cold, sleepy cuddles by the fireplace, and dialogue 34. "Isn't it beautiful?"
> 
> Yes, the title is a (bad) play on Katy Perry's "Hot and Cold."

Peter and MJ shuffle across the street, gloved hands clasped together. Peter has his hood up, but it’s loose, snow melting in his hair. He hunches his shoulders, head ducked to avoid the flurries. 

“Peter, it’s good snow.”

“No such thing.”

“It’s light and fluffy,” MJ says. “Movie snow.”

“It’s cold,” Peter stresses, side-stepping a patch of ice. 

“But not too cold that it can’t snow,” MJ points out. 

Peter glances over, barely catching MJ in the periphery past his hood. He should have at least clasped the buttons across his chin, but it makes him feel claustrophobic and young, reminds him of May crouching down and double-checking that everything was zipped and fastened before winding a thick scarf around his neck to hold it all in place. Peter had been scrawny then, shivered easy. 

MJ’s hair spills out of her black cotton hat, chin tilted up to feel the snowflakes melting against her skin and gliding onto her eyelashes. She blinks them way. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“No.” Peter stumbles and squeezes her hand.

She shakes her head. “It’s only a few degrees below freezing.”

“ _Below_ freezing, MJ,” he emphasizes. 

“We could have missed your coworker’s birthday dinner, but you RSVPed.”

“I didn’t know it’d be snowing!”

She laughs, pulling him down their street. She notices the patch of ice covering the sidewalk, slowing down and allowing her boots to glide across it. She twists her hand in his as she turns around. “Where’s your non-denominational winter spirit, Parker?”

“I left it in the restaurant. Where are all your vaguely disgruntled, passive-aggressive comments about Steve bringing down your entire mood?”

She scrunches up her face. A large, white snowflake lands right on her nose. Jeez, she’s cute. “Left it in the restaurant.”

She stumbles on her last glide backwards, back of her boot hitting the sidewalk. Her head jerks, hand squeezing Peter’s and then slackening like she doesn’t want to take him down with her. 

He could let her fall. She’d probably land on her butt, maybe catch herself with her hands. He considers it for a blink. She’s wearing gloves, so her palms wouldn’t scrape up, and the possibility of her wrists snapping in half are low. Just an embarrassing fall; karma. 

Peter tightens his grasp on MJ, heaving her toward him. “Oof,” he says, her body colliding into his.

“My hero,” she snarks. 

Peter rolls his eyes. 

He follows MJ up the stairs once inside their building. Her steps are slow and steady like the bass line of a song. It takes patience. Peter likes to sprint up, skipping the occasional stair. 

He nudges his nose into her hair when she unzips her purse, searching for the key. 

“Stop that.” She bats at him. 

“Your hat is in the way,” he says, inhaling. She smells like the cold, crisp, slicing right through him and waking him up. Shivering against her, Peter presses a kiss to the back of her head as she unlocks their apartment door. 

He shakes off his hood like a dog shaking off the rain (he’s been trying to convince MJ to adopt, but she insists they don’t have time yet; Peter clings to the _yet_ ). Unzipping his coat and tugging off his gloves, he presses his cold hands to MJ’s flushed cheeks, grinning when she wiggles away. “See? I’m cold.”

She huffs, a fondness in the breath that Peter’s learned to pick out. “I’ll start a fire if you make cocoa?” 

“Deal.”

They’re lucky. Their landlord kept up the fireplace maintenance long before they started renting their place. It’s an old apartment. Sometimes it feels like more floorboards creak than not, the water pressure could use some work, and no matter what they try, their closet smells like mothballs. 

But it’s theirs. 

It has a fireplace. 

They have wood with less than 20% moisture so it burns cleaner, a too soft sofa to sink into, blankets stolen from both their childhoods, and a new one quilted by MJ’s mom, made special as an apartment warming gift. 

Peter changes into pajamas before heading to the kitchen, warming milk for hot chocolate in a pan, whisking in cocoa powder and sugar and a pinch of salt. He pours the cocoa into two mugs (the oversized one MJ likes with a chip in the side, and the SI one for him), adding marshmallows to his. 

Younger, eager, comfortable but yearning, he once told MJ she didn’t top her cocoa with anything because she’s “sweet enough.” The disgust on her face was real, and she didn’t bother to dignify his statement with a response. 

She kissed him anyway, heat transferring from her mug to her hands to Peter’s neck as she opened her mouth against his.

And, anyway, her kisses _were_ sweet, rich and warm and wonderful. 

He loved her then, loves her now, loves walking into the quiet living room, fire sparking and crackling. MJ’s buried underneath the quilt, her toes covered in fuzzy red socks that stick out past the blanket’s edge. 

Peter hands her both mugs while he settles in.

It’s their second holiday season living together, and he revels in the newfound familiarity. The menorah on the end table by the front door, the matching stockings May bought them hanging over the fireplace, and MJ’s tiny, artificial tree in the corner, multicolored lights and a mixture of their own homemade ornaments (the tin foil santa she colored in first grade, and the knitted snowflake from her mom, and the popsicle stick picture frame Peter made for the photo of May, Ben and himself by the tree at Rockefeller Center).

When he takes his hot chocolate again, MJ moves to rest the small of her back against the sofa’s arm, swinging her legs over Peter’s, thighs warms and perpendicular across his. “You going out tonight?”

“It’s snowing.”

“People could slip and break their hips out there. Get hypothermia. Snow forts could be gerrymandered.” 

Peter laughs, resting his other hand on her thigh. The flannel of her pants is worn and soft as he swipes his thumb back and forth, fabric scrunching and unscrunching. “Already saved you, didn’t I? Other people aren’t so stubborn.”

She scoffs.

“They stay inside, MJ.”

Rolling her eyes, she brings her mug up to take a sip, and a ring on her left hand catches the fire’s glow. 

“Uh, where’d you get that?” Peter asks. 

She glances down, swallowing and licking a drop off her bottom lip. “It was in my stocking.”

“It’s not even Christmas Eve.”

“I wasn’t about to let you Alan-Rickman-in- _Love_ - _Actually_ me,” she says. 

They’ve talked about getting married, obviously. Peter wouldn’t have asked May for her engagement ring, the story of Ben picking it out a bedtime tale from his childhood, if they hadn’t. The first time was during their freshman year of college, MJ making an off-hand comment that flipped around Peter’s stomach. Slowly, the comments morphed into serious conversations, testing out a future in practicalities instead of idealizations. He wants to kiss her forever, but does she want to be tied to New York the way Peter does? He wants to sleep next to her every single night, but would MJ grow tired of Peter stumbling out of bed at two in the morning? He wants to hold her hand on an icy sidewalk, but does she want the little fingers of a child wrapped around the other one? 

MJ does the laundry, and Peter washes the dishes so her hands don’t dry out, and they’re ready. 

But he wasn’t going to propose on Christmas (they discussed that, too: no holiday proposals. Even Arbor Day is unacceptable). MJ does the laundry, and Peter didn’t know where else to stash the ring.

“You’re supposed to let me ask.”

She takes another sip of cocoa, eyebrows raised.

“I was waiting until January.”

She hums, tapping her hand against the ceramic of her mug so the ring clinks. 

Peter sighs, pushing lightly against her thigh and sliding his hand to cup her knee. “You’d have to move.”

Warmth has accumulated underneath their blankets, the fire roaring nicely, flames licking orange and blue, but he doesn’t want MJ to drop her legs. He’d feel the lack. 

“Seems unnecessary.”

“I had this whole _plan_ ,” Peter insists. “I was gonna take you to the MoMA, and then we could go ice skating in Central Park, pick up takeout from the Indian place you really love on the way home, and then--”

“Peter,” she interrupts softly.

“You never look in your stocking. Last year I had to remind you.”

“Do you want me to put it back?” she asks. 

MJ offers a small smile, eyes sparkling and bright, a quick nod that betrays her. She’d take the ring off (he can tell it’s just too wide and needs to be resized), put it back in the jewelry box and wait for Peter, for January, or until he comes up with a new plan. She’d slip the ring off and give it back, but she doesn’t want to.

He likes the ring on MJ’s finger. The small oval cut glinting if she moves her hand just so. 

He doesn’t want it back. 

He finds her eyes. Her hair frizzes at the ends from the melted snow. 

Peter loves her. 

“Will you marry me?”

She holds her hand in front of her face, tilting her head as though inspecting the ring. “I don’t know…”

“MJ.”

She beams, biting her bottom lip like she does whenever her happiness overwhelms her. “Yes.”

“Yeah?” When Peter blinks, he’s not surprised at the tears clouding his vision.

“Yes.”

He scrambles to set his hot cocoa down, grabs hers, too, ignoring MJ’s faux huff of disapproval (she’s still smiling) and leaning over awkwardly to kiss her. 

“I love you,” he says, lips ghosting over hers before pressing firmly.

“I love you, too.” 

They kiss lazily, MJ’s palms soft on Peter’s face, the slice of ring against his skin new, cool in comparison to the heat radiating from her. His back twists at an uncomfortable angle, and their hot cocoa becomes lukewarm. The fire fades, embers still glowing as they rearrange themselves, MJ’s back leaning against his front, blankets hauled more securely over them.

Peter wraps his arms around her middle, and MJ lays her hands on top of his like she knows his senses will tune themselves to the metal on her left hand. 

“Feels weird,” she whispers. 

“Yeah?”

She slides her hands up his arms like she’s trying to keep him close. She really doesn’t have to worry. “Just not used to it yet,” she clarifies. 

Peter hums, burying his nose in her hair and inhaling, content and satisfied without her hat in the way. “We could switch.”

“What’d you mean?”

“I could wear the ring instead.”

MJ laughs lowly, but she says, “I’ll get you one,” soft and serious. 

“Okay.” He nuzzles impossibly closer, squeezing her tighter. “Awesome.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” she warns around a yawn. 

“I won’t.”

He does. 

But MJ does, too. 

Peter wakes to an alert on his phone, MJ’s hair in his face and his arm half-asleep where it’s smooshed underneath her. Her body is hot, pliant and wonderful. Peter wants to stay, fall back asleep and let his arm lose all feeling so he wakes up with pins and needles. 

He can’t. He knows that. 

Carefully extracting himself from her long limbs, Peter rearranges the blankets before snuffing out the fire and closing the flue. He presses a kiss to MJ’s forehead. “Be back soon.”

She whines but doesn’t open her eyes. “‘s supposed to snow until tomorrow morning. Wear a hat.”

Peter smiles. “Love you.”

“I love you, too.” She rolls over, blankets twisting underneath her. 

Peter doesn’t want to venture outside; the flurries have picked up, and a few inches have accumulated. But he pulls MJ’s hat over his head, over the Spidey suit, hoping her enthusiasm will transfer, and if not, she’ll be happy he followed her advice. 

(Happy wife, happy life. Or maybe that’s sexist? Peter will have to look it up later. First, he’s got traffic to direct.)


End file.
